by Pamela Ann Cleverly Christmas is nearly upon us and I haven’t bought a single present, sent out cards or baked cookies. We’ve only had one day with enough snow to cover the grass and that didn’t last more than a few hours. It was seventy degrees over the weekend and the flowers that I… Read More

Pamela Ann Cleverly

I’ve always had stories in my head. They were there
just waiting to be pulled out when I needed to keep my three
rowdy younger brothers quiet. There was a story for long
trips in the car or bad weather days. If need be, I could
read them something from my vast library of Nancy Drew and
the Hardy Boys. Those books were the fuel that fed my love
of mysteries that years later would lead me to Agatha
Christie, Mary Stewart, and Phyllis Whitney.

My teachers complained to my mother that I often daydreamed
in class. I didn’t pay attention. When class got
boring, I just flipped the switch in my head, and a
wonderful story began to play. I tried my best to look
attentive, which wasn’t easy. I struggled through
school — then I struggled through life.

After a failed marriage, my young daughter and I left the
comfort of northeastern Ohio for Toronto, Ontario. It was
love at first sight, and each year was more exciting and
glamorous than the last. I became an active member of the
American business community with ties to the American
Consulate. It was a fantasy life, just like in the books
that kept my mind occupied each day riding the subway
trains. But just six years later, and at the height of my
social life, my second husband was transferred back to
Cleveland. I cried all the way to Buffalo. Then, before I
had time to plan my next move, I had a devastating accident,
which left me unable to walk without assistance for almost a
year. I read over three hundred books that year. I expanded
my interests into the genres of Romance and often read two
Harlequins in a single day. I found myself rewriting some of
the endings or continuing on with a sequel if the story
ended too soon.

One day, I told my mother that the stories in my head were
often better than the ones I read. I guess I’d never
explained to anyone about those stories that came out of
nowhere. Her answer was that I should write them down. Gee,
I’d never thought of that. And so in the summer of
1982, I began my first book — a paranormal set outside
of London. I wrote it out longhand and then typed the
completed pages on my portable typewriter. My world was
perfect and I was going to become a writer. But not then.

Fast-forward twenty-three years. I was sitting at my
computer at work and suddenly there was a story in my head.
It wouldn’t go away, and it wouldn’t let me
think about anything else. So I started writing and finally
finished at 160,000 words. But then the sequel was in my
head, and I was in trouble because I didn’t know what
to do next. I joined a writer’s group, and now
I’m finally ready to tell my stories.

I’ll be telling those stories from the rolling hills
of northeastern Ohio. That is, when I’m not telling
them from our home in the lower Florida Keys. I’m also
the Executive Director of CANTER Ohio (The Communication
Alliance to Network Thoroughbred Ex-Racehorses). But
that’s another story.

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